Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  “Men with mistresses.”

  The headmaster chortled, while Mila let out what could only be described as a yawp. “Taimi! Mistresses! Where did you get such an idea?”

  Taimi opened her mouth to answer.

  “No,” Mila said quickly. “Do not speak. I do not want to hear it. God gives us one wife. One husband.”

  Amanda looked at Meg, who glowered back at her under the lip of her hat.

  “Meg, honey? Why did you hit Taimi?”

  Meg’s lip started to quiver.

  “I don’t want to tell.”

  “You have to,” Amanda said, trying, for once, to sound stern.

  “Well, technically you don’t have to,” Headmaster Pierre said, folding his hands over his stomach. “Let’s stick to the rule books here! I don’t want any”—he glanced at Mila—“talk later about this not being completely official. Though, dear, you might as well tell your mother what happened. I don’t see what it could possibly hurt.”

  Meg looked at the headmaster, then back at her mother. “Okay.”

  “Well?” he asked, looking not a little fearful at what he might hear.

  “Um … Taimi … was talking about how parents have secrets.”

  “Secrets,” Amanda repeated.

  “Well, you and Daddy have secrets. And I don’t know what a mattress is exactly—”

  “Mistress,” Taimi corrected, smiling at Headmaster Pierre.

  “—but maybe you and Daddy have one. I thought. Maybe. And that’s why you’re always fighting. And it made me mad.”

  Amanda bit the inside of her cheek. It was something she used to do at particularly caustic GiaTech meetings to keep from crying.

  “Meg,” she said, channeling all her energy into keeping her voice level and positive. “We’re not always fighting.”

  There was a heavy silence, as her daughter’s lack of reply challenged the validity of that statement.

  “Well. There’s no mistress, anyway.”

  “That’s settled!” Headmaster Pierre crowed, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “Now—”

  “Then why do you whisper?” Meg pressed.

  “Daddy’s just distracted. He worries about work. His book and everything. That’s all.”

  “That’s why you fight?”

  “We don’t fight. We talk.”

  Meg pushed her hat up until the brim stuck up vertically from her head, like a navy-blue halo. She took a step toward her mother and put her hands on her hips.

  “Really?”

  Amanda swallowed.

  “Yes.”

  “Really really?”

  Amanda nodded. You fucking liar.

  “Well!” Headmaster Pierre clapped his hands together and stood. “That’s sorted. Nice work, girls! No more slapping each other around, eh? All friends here.”

  “Taimi,” Mila commanded. “Embrace your friend.”

  Taimi jumped forward and folded Meg into her arms. “Come on!” she said, hooking her arm around Meg. The girls opened the door and trotted out, not bothering to look back. The headmaster followed. Mila regarded the activity in the hallway, then rose to close the office door.

  “Instant besties,” Amanda said, trying to lighten the mood. She could almost hear the effort splatter onto the floor.

  “Amanda Evans,” Mila said sternly. “What is happening in your family?”

  Amanda thought of all the cheerful ways to brush off Mila Shilongo’s curiosity. Then she got very, very tired.

  “My husband is having a nervous breakdown, I think.”

  “He is breaking down?”

  “In the States we call it a midlife crisis…”

  “No, no. We call it the same,” Mila said impatiently. “Well. Not Ovambos. Not Germans. Afrikaners, sometimes. Herero men, they break down often.” She shook her head. “You must tell him to be stronger. Life is not long.”

  “No. Well. In the U.S. it is. Life expectancy, I mean. My father’s almost eighty, and I’m thinking of finding him a home—”

  “You must protect your daughter from this. The breaking down. Her father cannot break down in front of her.”

  “No, he doesn’t. It’s subtler than that, you know? But … anyway. We’re fine.”

  “It does not seem fine.”

  “I overshared. I’m sorry. I never do that.”

  Mila didn’t answer.

  “Maybe marriage is more complicated where we come from. I’m probably overthinking it … Anyway, I never tell Mark any of this. Which is super-dishonest, I guess.”

  “Please,” Mila said. “Remember where you are. There are many different levels of truth here in Namibia.”

  Amanda squinted—a bad habit she’d developed since turning forty. It happened every time she took a swallow of wine, and when she didn’t understand something right away. “What does that mean?”

  “Sometimes we tell people things that may not be completely true, because that version helps more people. Or we arrange things in a fashion—I’m talking about management, you see—that might not look completely legitimate but will benefit more people. We speak eleven different languages here. Did you know that? We have nine different tribes, all with their own cultures and ways of doing things. How could we not have different versions of what’s true?”

  “I don’t know,” Amanda said doubtfully. “I’ve kind of always thought whatever happens, happens.”

  “No. A crocodile eats your goat by the river. Someone else saw the same thing, and said it was a leopard. The third person said it was a poacher. The goat is still gone. Do you see?”

  “Sure,” Amanda said. “Well. Not really. No. I don’t get it.”

  “You will be fine,” Mila said, standing and, to Amanda’s surprise, grabbing both of her wrists to pull her up. It was dizzying, being that close to her. “And we will be friends, Mrs. Evans.”

  “We will,” Amanda said. And to her surprise, she meant it.

  / 7 /

  Everyone knew there was at least one spy posted in each U.S. Embassy around the world. A CIA ace, posing as a humble diplomat.

  It was a common pastime of the Trailers to guess who it might be. In fact, just last week the Namibian contingent had played the who-is-it-here? game at Crafts and Cocktails. Kayla and Shoshana were convinced it was Trevor, a young operations assistant who always seemed to be MIA at functions. Persephone never said anything, because such conversations, obviously, were immensely unpatriotic. But she knew it was definitely not Trevor. First of all, he would have been awfully obvious. Plus he was phenomenally good at his actual position, a difficult task of scoping out and renting properties secure and enormous enough to house the American diplomats. No, it was becoming increasingly clear that the CIA plant in question in the Namibian Embassy was her very own husband—Adam.

  The first hint was privacy screens on all his devices. Then there were the hushed conversations in the olive grove, and the constant trips made upon the flimsiest of excuses. The nail in the coffin was that, ever since hitting sub-Saharan Africa, Adam had become absolutely dreadful at his embassy job. Persephone had to admit he’d never exactly blown the top off his roles in Kuwait or eastern Europe, but in Namibia it had gotten especially bad. Which was exactly how she knew he must be spending his time doing something else.

  For example:

  “These Americans in jail for supposedly trafficking marijuana,” she said on the morning of Amanda’s meet-’n’-greet breakfast as she and Adam sat together, perusing The Namibian over their morning coffee. “They’ve been waiting for a trial for quite a while now. Isn’t that your area?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? If you’re not advising these men, who is?”

  “You know the ambo has me ass-over-elbow, babe. Which is why I’m headed out today.”

  “But, darling. Have you been to see them in jail lately? They must be so uncomfortable.”

  “Giving them cookies is consular work. Anyway, why are you being such a little bitch? Stre
ssed over your breakfast party?”

  Persephone arched her back in annoyance. She abhorred the b-word, unless one was speaking of whelping full-bred puppies. Though perhaps she was grumpy, as she had risen at 5:00 a.m. to prepare for the party, and by 7:00 she’d already hit some roadblocks. First: Shoshana’s text reminder that she didn’t eat gluten. Persephone had already been down to the bakery at the Puma station, elbowing old German ladies out of the way for the famous baguettes and chocolate croissants; now she had to send Sally, the second-newest Trailing Spouse and therefore the most gullible, on an emergency trip to Woolworth’s. Minutes later, Kayla called, saying she would be late, if she made it at all. Then Margo called on the landline. Were kids okay? She figured no, but little Noah was doing his “elimination training” and had to be monitored at all times with the potty bowl, so … Yes, Margo. Of course! Ugh. Then there was a sewage backup in the mini–olive grove—something that happened often enough, but did it have to take place on the day of her party? And now, on top of it all, Adam had coolly told her on his way out that he’d be away on government business for the next three days. Starting now.

  “And I’ll actually be away next week, too.”

  “Oh, darling. Next week? We’ve volunteered to host the embassy braai. I’m running the entire thing. You’re supposed to man the grill.”

  Adam paused, espresso cup in hand, and shot her his Mr. Politics smile. Persephone’s husband was the sort of man one might brush off as blandly handsome, until the moment that smile of his transformed him totally. She had seen more doors than she cared to remember open just by a flash of those perfect teeth, those sexy wrinkles at the corners of his green eyes. Her husband’s smile promised, wrongly, that he was worthy of your secrets.

  “My sweet. I know the braai is crucial,” he said. “Well, I don’t, really. Not half as crucial as opening the new PEPFAR center in Rundu, anyway. The Namibian president is coming to cut the ribbon with the ambo, and what the fuck does she know about Rundu? And if that thing isn’t done, it’s my ass on the line. So I’m just going to have to fucking set up camp up there, you know?”

  Ugh. It seemed a bit early in the day for all this swearing.

  “Again, I’m not certain what Rundu has to do with being legal counsel…”

  “You know I can’t answer every one of your questions, honey. It’s the State Department.”

  “Well, I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me this before,” she said. “I don’t know how to grill. Namibians don’t even let you use gas. Or charcoal! They use wood. Dry branches they go out and gather from the veld. How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Why don’t you get your hot friend Mila to help you?”

  “Oh, I hate you.”

  Adam came behind her, circling his arms around her waist. He bit her ear, then growled something completely unmentionable. Her face safely out of his line of sight, Persephone rolled her eyes. How Adam did adore dirty talk.

  “You taking the kids to school today?” he whispered.

  “They’re going on the diplomatic shuttle,” she said, still pouting.

  “Frida!” Adam called down the hall. “Get the tykes on the bus, okay?”

  “Yes, meneer.”

  And then Adam pulled Persephone into the laundry room and, muttering at her as if she were a sex worker in Bangkok, very efficiently did the thing he’d promised, in just the amount of time he had before heading to the airport.

  It was somewhat exciting, having a husband who was a spy, even if he couldn’t exactly tell her that fact. It made the sex a bit more titillating, she supposed, though maybe not just now, because she did not enjoy that angle. Persephone didn’t care what the other Trailing Spouses said about sex. No woman did. Honestly. Right now all that mattered was that she had to come up with something different to wear than this freshly pressed dress with the awkward stain it had just acquired. Shame.

  Adam and Persephone had much more sex than she let on, especially to the other Trailers. Though from powder room conversations at State Department functions—not the fundraisers, but the parties where free wine was served—she knew Foreign Service marrieds tended to have much more sex than normal U.S. couples, anyway. For one thing, everyone was well rested. All the mothers had hired help, so there was no excuse of the kids tiring you out. The job offered constant vacations to exotic locales. You had to attend at least one evening function a week, where the only way to get through it was at least a tiny bit of alcohol. Some embassies had gone through a full course of in-house swinging; apparently there had been quite a to-do in the Haitian consulate over the last few years. But Windhoek, with its camel thorn trees and brown crabby grass, wasn’t exactly the sort of place that inspired orgies.

  Suffice to say that the members of the U.S. Embassy community in Namibia—whether breadwinner or spouse—had a lot of sex with their own partners. And after a fishbowl of bad wine from the Erongo, the girls had a tendency to get a little competitive about how far they’d go. Kayla dressed up in outfits. Shoshana and Barry had tried a threesome. Margo liked it from behind. No, behind behind. Oh, it went on, and on. This husband loved dildos up his rear, that person made home porn movies. It was a bit tiresome, to know so many details about the people you saw every single day.

  That sort of bragging wasn’t for Persephone. She didn’t need to, because she knew perfectly well that she and Adam had more sex than any of them. Nor did she think it vain to acknowledge that as a fit thirty-eight-year-old who still looked pretty terrific in white skinny jeans, she inspired a lot of sex. It was part of her job. No matter how modern attitudes got, or how empowered mothers became, as an Embassy Wife (or Husband!), lots of sex was something you signed up for. After all, if your working spouse wanted it, what could you say? I’m too busy right now, because I have to run to the Puma station for croissants?

  She stood in front of the mirror, attacking the rat’s nest Adam had made of the back of her head and trying to decide which iteration of white to put on … Fashion, Persephone had learned the hard way, varied from post to post. Go on wearing your Lululemon or your Rag & Bone in Namibia, and you’d look not just elitist, but disrespectful. Backtrack to cargo pants and T-shirts, on the other hand, and you’d look like Safari Sam, fresh off the overland bus.

  Persephone had been around long enough to know that most Incomings, upon arrival, panicked and spent thousands of dollars on Amazon. These men and women would clog the State Department pouch with various articles of light travel clothing, which they would undoubtedly wear once and then give to their housekeepers. Not Persephone. Not anymore. Her uniform was white, other than workout clothes, for which she opted for pure black. She didn’t look like other international women, and she never looked like she was trying to look like a local. She had her own style. She was an—no, the—Embassy Wife.

  Wait. Someone was hovering outside the door. Frida.

  “Miss Persephone?”

  “Yes, Miss Frida. Come in.”

  Persephone had asked Frida a million times to stop calling her Miss. She loved having help, but she didn’t like the platitudes that came with the classic African household. She wasn’t Scarlett O’Hara, for heaven’s sake. Well. Maybe she was Karen Blixen, but the baroness started a school for her help, and fretted no end about the plight of her staff. Anyway. The point was, even though she had been born in a university hospital in Charlottesville, and Frida had likely been born somewhere unimaginable, Persephone was an American, which meant they were both women and humans, and no one should be calling anyone Miss. But Frida wouldn’t stop, even though Persephone had commanded and begged. So now Persephone mirrored the effort, to keep things on the up-and-up. Which was too bad, because saying “Miss Frida” every time Persephone needed the housekeeper to do something was a real mouthful.

  “Lucy went to the van without her shoes, Miss,” Frida said now. “I thought they were in her rucksack, but I just found them.”

  “Lucy! What is wrong with her? Oh, I hate bus mornings. She�
��ll just have to go to class looking like a street child from Katutura. I mean—sorry.” Frida lived in Katutura, along with almost every other domestic worker in Windhoek. “I mean, I know you wear shoes! And that everyone in Katutura, in fact, favors footwear. Except some people. Though Afrikaners really hate shoes, don’t they? I always see those children in the grocery store shoeless. Even at the doctor’s office, no shoes! And certainly they can afford—never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about. And how are you doing today, Miss Frida?”

  “I am fine, Miss Persephone,” Frida said, smiling inscrutably. At her? With her? She was fairly certain Frida thought she was a complete idiot, though she hoped not, because she really liked Frida, who was wise, and had three children of her own she never mentioned or complained about, and could solve the most difficult household problem with a minimum of discussion or fretting. And here Persephone had gone, disparaging the Location. She was no better than that lady in the gym she’d randomly talked to who longed for apartheid because the traffic had been better controlled by the white government. Which might have been true, technically, but it was an appalling thing to say, all the same.

  “Miss Frida? I’ve been meaning to give you something.” She strode over to her closet. The doors opened with a bang, and clothes—disgustingly wasteful, barely worn clothes—came spilling out. Persephone looked at the heap, then grabbed two of her least favorite dresses and a sweater. “Won’t you take these? It would be such a help. And these shoes.” She nabbed a pair of gold sandals she’d only worn once because the soles were too slippery. “They are perfect for your feet.”

  “Okay, miss.” Frida took the pile of clothes, her face completely neutral, neither grateful nor offended. “Thank you, miss.”

  “Oh, Frida, can’t we just try and call me Persephone?”

  “Yes, Miss … Persephone.”

  “Oh, Miss yourself! All right. Forget it. Let’s get ready for this breakfast, shall we? The ladies are coming now-now. I’ll make the coffee, you warm the croissants?”

  The two moved around the house together, putting out food from the hidden bakery, Woolworth’s, and SPAR, and arranging flowers and napkins. The breakfast was to start at 10:00, but in the nines, Persephone was still in the middle of making eggs-in-a-hole (a last-minute decision) when the bell rang and Shoshana’s car appeared in her video viewer.